


Worse Than Nicotine

by vargrimar



Series: The Chambers and the Valves [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealousy, Mild Sexual Content, Missing Scene, Multi, Pining, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Pre-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 03, Very Very Mild, ah yes can't forget the angst, and between janine and sherlock, because these are sherlock's post-wedding cocaine days, but he's manipulating her and nothing actually happens, can that be considered sexual content?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar
Summary: But Sherlock is selfish. Sherlock is selfish and greedy and continues to want even though he cannot have, and if he could just have John work with him again, if he could have John in the context of a case, a mystery, a murder, then maybe—God, maybe his chest might hurt a little less.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Janine, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Chambers and the Valves [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640680
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Worse Than Nicotine

**Author's Note:**

> ( but I need it so bad )

“You talk in your sleep sometimes, you know.”

Sherlock opens his eyes. The warm body curled against him shifts in the sheets, and when he glances down, he finds Janine staring back across the pillows. Her facial structure is pleasant: slight curves, rounded chin, high cheekbones, all framed by soft, dark waves of brunet hair. The deep brown of her eyes reminds him of a rich lager. He imagines most men and a sizable number of women would drink it down if they were keen. Anyone would be lucky to call this witty woman their girlfriend.

Anyone but him.

“Do I?” he asks, and he says it to be polite because he’s very certain he doesn’t talk in his sleep, but there is no harm in idle conversation. The façade mustn’t crack.

“Not full sentences or anything,” she says, canting her head to the side—that’s supposed to be flirty. Coy. _Come pursue me_. “But you do get a few words in every now and again.”

“Mm. Embarrassing words, no doubt.”

“Not really. Not if you consider chemical compounds and the occasional demand for tea embarrassing.” One hand coasts up the length of his side, pricking gooseflesh in its wake. _I’m fond of you._ “Why? Have you something to be embarrassed of, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Well, can’t have the fact that I’m human going public, now, can I?” He punctuates this with a sly, affectionate grin. _I’m fond of you, too_.

Janine returns it and leans in to kiss his chin. “Oh, you are very human. It’s surprising, really. Not at all what I expected.”

“Oh?” He lets surprise edge into his voice. “And what did you expect?”

“Well, you know what the papers say. People talk like you’re a machine. You don’t bother with tedious things like eating or sleeping or emotion.”

“Eating and sleeping _can_ be tedious.”

The corner of her mouth pinches in a wider smile. “But not emotion?”

“Emotion has its benefits,” he admits, and he guides his hand under her jaw to draw her in for a kiss.

Janine shutters her eyes and melts against him, warm and pliant. Her mouth is soft and her exhales are hot against his lips. Pleasant prickles swim down the back of his neck when her nails knead through his hair to gently scritch at his scalp. The tentative press of her thigh against the black cotton of his pants implies she would be more than willing to take this further, but he is going to leave her disappointed, just as he has every night since the start of their faux relationship.

Well, it isn’t faux for Janine. For Janine, it is very, very real. She genuinely believes she’s captured the interest—and quite possibly the heart—of Sherlock Holmes.

And she’s right, in a way. She _has_ captured his interest, but not for the reasons she would like. Her connection to Charles Magnussen has made her a prime target for Sherlock to exploit, and Sherlock has every intention of exploiting said target to further his case against the Napoleon of blackmail. A rather serendipitous meeting, he supposes, despite the initial circumstances. He never imagined he’d make such a useful acquaintance at a wedding.

Of course, while it is true that Janine does have his interest, the question of his heart is non placet. It has already been stolen by a man who doesn’t even know he has it, so there is nothing left for Janine to have. However, Sherlock imitates a lovestruck fool rather well. He knows the intricacies of body language, the art of endearing words, the signs of seduction. It’s easy enough to slip into the persona of a man besotted, and even more so now that he’s had the proper experience.

His statement is correct: emotion does appear to have some benefit. Authenticity in performance, if any.

Sherlock lets his hand drift from her jaw and into the soft waves of her hair. It passes for intimacy and allows for better purchase, better control. If things become too heated, he can exert a little pressure into his fingerprints, give her a chaste kiss upon the nose, and make his excuses. He’s certain she’s tiring of said excuses because her hands have a tendency to wander and her flirting is thoroughly couched in pawky repartees, but he needs this to last a while longer. Things aren’t quite in place with regards to Magnussen, and there is still the matter of recruiting John.

Not that he expects recruiting John to be a problem. He’s certain John will be willing. Even if a bit of palaver is required, it will all be just for show. It has been over a month since the wedding, and although both Watsons have settled rather amicably into the ennui and tedium that is the domestic life, he knows it’s driving John mad. John _needs_ this sort of excitement, needs it just as Sherlock needs it—because that’s their addiction, their desire, their mutual dependency—and that in an of itself is a sufficient lure. It just needs to be presented in the correct way.

After all, John’s priorities have been redistributed. They’ve been a bit skewed since Sherlock’s death, but this time there are additional factors and with far heavier weights. John has a job and a wife—two things which more or less existed before, albeit in a lesser status—but neither job nor wife nor girlfriend nor fiancée has ever kept him from Sherlock in any meaningful sense.

However, now that John has a child in the equation, these things together hold significantly more clout. They mean ( _the end of an era_ ) other things will start to take precedence. John can’t drop everything the moment Sherlock beckons with a promising case because the crux of the matter is that the dangerous elements that once enticed him could now pose a threat to his family.

And Sherlock knows this. He does. Of course he does. But—

Pleasurable frisson zips down his backbone under Janine’s fingertips, and Sherlock groans.

But God, he’s selfish. He’s selfish and greedy and he needs John. As much as the twist in his chest protests, as much as he wishes otherwise, he does need John. And not just within the context of The Work, although that is equally as important; he needs him within the context of everything else. Eating, thinking, drinking, sleeping, plotting, existing—coupled with a John component, everything becomes better somehow, as inexplicable a truth as that is. And now that John has been sequestered away for almost five weeks in the suburbs post-sex holiday, it has become painfully apparent that even though they’ve had sparse contact through text and the comment section on John’s blog, neither can substitute for John’s actual presence.

And that’s why he’s thrown himself into this, really. This Magnussen case. Because there has only ever been one panacea for the racing loudness in his head, for the unwelcome crescendo of sensation and input, and that is getting high, regardless of whether it’s from natural dopamine production via a case or a manufactured seven percent solution delivered by the prick of a needle. This is distraction, recreation, something to keep his mind busy; this is staving off boredom in his usual way. The cocaine he must use to develop a public-facing drug addiction for Magnussen’s perusal just happens to be an added bonus.

And a lure.

Ah. Right. Yes. Speaking of which—

“It’s time,” he says.

“Is it? Already?” Janine frowns and tilts up a smidge to check the bedside clock. Displeased with the display, she flops back down with a heavy sigh. “I know you said you weren’t going to stay tonight, but this is nice. Do you really have to leave?”

“Unfortunately,” he says, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I wish it was otherwise, but, well. You know how it is. Rather pressing business.”

“Pressing? At nine o’clock on a Tuesday?”

Sherlock hums in the affirmative. “Prior engagement.”

“I’d ask what sort of prior engagement, but I’ve a feeling you won’t let on.”

“Your feeling is quite correct.” He leaves an apologetic peck on her cheek. “Perhaps later.”

This seems to placate her, though not by much. “Will I see you in the morning?”

“Mm. Possibly. Don’t know just yet. You go in at half eight, yes?”

“Bright and early, yeah.”

The lie comes easily: “No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Janine beams, every inch as besotted as Sherlock isn’t, and she leans inward to capture him in another kiss. It is slower than the previous, languid and unhurried, a gentle push of soft-sweet-wet. The sensual undertone is difficult to miss as her thigh is now wedged quite firmly against his groin, and she seems intent on inflicting as much pressure and friction as possible. If it weren’t for his mild state of arousal—which is no doubt encouraging to Janine despite the fact that it has nothing to do with her (and everything to do with John)—he would have had to extricate himself much sooner. Biology doesn’t lie; an erection or lack thereof in such a situation carries connotations that are unmistakable.

“I’d really like it, you know. Waking up to this. It would be a lovely surprise.” Her hand glides down his chest, and she budges closer so that her body is fully flush. “If you can make it back, that is. If you can’t, well… you’ll just have to make it up to me, then, won’t you?”

A subtle smile. “You’ve got ideas.”

“Several.” Her hand dips lower. “I’m sure you can deduce what they are.”

Unfortunately, he thinks.

“Naturally,” he says.

“Is this prior engagement of yours really so pressing?” she asks, and now her thigh has been replaced by her fingers. _I want you_. “It can wait a little while, can’t it? Doesn’t have to be long.”

Tenderly, he caresses her cheek. _I’m sorry_. “It can’t wait, I’m afraid. Pressing, as I said. But I will make it up to you. I can promise that. Next time, hm? Friday evening after your shift. Or perhaps Saturday morning,” he adds, mouth brushing her ear, “just after you’ve woken up.”

Disappointment is evident in her every feature, but Janine takes it in stride and kisses him as if it were her last.

Sherlock readies himself with perfunctory swiftness. He pulls a black polo and a grey pair of track bottoms out of various drawers and slips into them as Janine watches from the centre of his bed. He makes sure to cast her the occasional glance whilst he searches for an appropriate jacket amidst his other clothes (because he cannot bring the Belstaff, not there) in hopes that abject fondness might mollify any rankled feelings. Janine, half naked and dishevelled beneath the duvet, returns each with a little smile or an appreciative leer, and Sherlock recognises them for what they are: evidence that he has already been forgiven.

Once he has selected the next pair of socks from his index and tugged on an old pair of trainers, Sherlock does the typical boyfriend thing and kisses Janine goodbye. She nuzzles his nose and tells him to be careful, and he plays his part and reassures her with murmured inanities and another kiss. The way her fingers trace his jaw implies reluctance; she would prefer him to stay, even if sex isn’t on the table, which bodes well considering the relationship’s primary purpose.

It really is fortuitous how willing Janine is to overlook evasive behaviour and cryptic rhetoric. A feature of infatuation, he thinks, but he won’t complain. It works in his favour. He can’t afford to end this charade any sooner than necessary, not with so many details left undefined, so he will capitalise on her trust while he can. The happier she is, the less she suspects, and the less she suspects, the easier it will be to get to Magnussen.

The truth, when it finally happens, is going to hurt.

Good thing it’s not his problem.

When Sherlock bursts through 221B’s door and out into London’s summery night air, he finds himself buzzing with jittery anticipation. The waiting tends to be the boring part, but the nature of this case means he has more than a little help getting through. It’s not that he necessarily looks forward to shooting up in a filthy crack house tucked away amidst the more respectable areas of London, but he won’t deny that it is a far more pleasurable way to pass the time than shamming as Janine’s doting boyfriend.

Sherlock flags a cab and directs the driver to the neighbourhood of his most recent drug den. He has been to this particular den thrice already this month and twice to another. Thanks to his previous stints in substance abuse, this will be seen as nothing more than a relapse, and will thus cement a blatant pattern for Magnussen to see. And because Magnussen is a predatory shark who smells opportunities for blackmail like blood in the water, he will have no choice but to categorise drug usage as Sherlock’s pressure point.

It’s not an ideal pressure point, of course, but…

Well, it’s better than the truth, isn’t it?

He withdraws his mobile from his jacket pocket and swipes through his texts, pausing when John’s name slides into view. The last message received is from over three weeks ago, John responding to some pointless question Sherlock had sent to gauge John’s interest after both Watsons’ return. The reply hadn’t been to Sherlock’s liking (not nearly enough enthusiasm, he’d thought; what a _tempered_ reply), and Sherlock, being prone to the occasional childish and petulant strop that he is, had decided not to pursue it further. If John were truly so chuffed with married life, Sherlock would not intervene despite the ravenous desire to barge his way back into John’s personal space with all the airy grace and aplomb he knows captivates the dear doctor’s attention before promptly dragging him into his plot to bring down Charles Magnussen.

Even now he must resist. He traces his thumb print over the assorted messages, his hand stiff with tension. The impulse to text “ _Case. Baker Street tomorrow morning. Need assistance. Definitely dangerous. SH_ ” stretches far beyond the pitiful definition of irresistible. John must be going mad by now, he’s sure of it, but he dares not reach out. Not yet. The illusory drug habit must come first. Tomorrow’s meeting depends on it. There is only one chance at this, just the one, and he can’t allow himself to bollocks it up.

Pocketing his phone, Sherlock leans his head against the cab window and runs his fingers along the crook of his elbow, down the underside of his right forearm. The three injection sites beneath the jacket have long since healed, though the years-old scar at the very bend still remains. Janine saw and asked about it once. Two weeks or so ago, he remembers, when she saw him shirtless for the first time. He hadn’t denied the indulgent benders he’d endured throughout his youth, but he had denied his current involvement. It wouldn’t have done to chase her off so soon.

John, on the other hand, never asked. Never mentioned if he saw, either, though there was ample opportunity. That first night at Baker Street when Lestrade was waiting with a drugs bust, he’d been clued in with little ceremony ( _Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?_ ), and afterward he’d kept the knowledge under wraps until certain sets of circumstances came calling.

It had been a periodic thing, those odd times when John somehow exercised acute observation and sensed the nervous need. Dinner beyond the flat was a common suggestion, which meant travelling to another part of town. John ushered him to Angelo’s or a new Chinese he’d heard about or the one brilliant Indian place with the curries over in Southwark. When Sherlock got vocal about cigarettes, so did John, and that resulted in a lot of belligerent back and forths that demonstrated just how obstinate John Watson could be. And in the aftermath, a while after John had his cool-off walk, Sherlock would often find a new box of nicotine patches and a package of gingernuts in his chair as if they were some sort of peace offering or compromise: _These first, Sherlock. All right? These first. Then ask me for a light._

He pulls out his mobile again, taps it on, and flips back through John’s texts. This shouldn’t be so difficult, he thinks, frowning at one of John’s text-made smiley faces from two months past. John is taken. John is off-limits. John is _married_. There are limits, boundaries, on what can and cannot be.

But Sherlock is selfish. Sherlock is selfish and greedy and continues to want even though he cannot have, and if he could just have John work with him again, if he could have John in the context of a case, a mystery, a murder, then maybe—

God, maybe his chest might hurt a little less.

Thus the continued distance. The lure.

Attracting Magnussen’s attention is simple enough. It’s an easy feat when the man has his own bloody media outlet and makes it his sole purpose in life to know every prominent figure’s deepest, darkest secrets so that he might manipulate them for personal gain or amusement. Get a minor celebrity to delve back into old habits like a hopeless addict, and there you have the headline for tomorrow’s paper.

Circumstances suggest attracting John’s attention will be a bit more difficult. John seems determined to steep in his newly acquired domesticity and has done so with his characteristic adamance. A soldier can be lured with action, a doctor with an injury, and a friend with both. John happens to be all three, which raises the question: How exactly does one persuade one obstinate John Watson to step outside his domain?

Sherlock tucks his phone back into his pocket, shutting his eyes against the scrolling streetlamp lights.

The answer: Get absolutely obliterated on cocaine.


End file.
